


What It Means to be Free

by WrongRemedy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fix-It, Post-Episode: s08e04 The Last of the Starks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 20:52:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18924793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WrongRemedy/pseuds/WrongRemedy
Summary: A re-write of the Sansa/Sandor reunion scene in 8.04, wherein Sansa convinces Sandor not to leave for King's Landing.





	What It Means to be Free

**Author's Note:**

> The last time I wrote this pairing was four years ago, but I never really left them behind. Sandor deserved to make it to the end, you can't change my mind.
> 
> Title from 'Daniel in the Den' by Bastille because I've always thought that song described Sansa's life perfectly.

“There's only one thing that would make me happy,” Sandor says, and the growl in his voice makes it clear that he isn't talking about anything pretty.

“And what's that?” Sansa asks, tone cool and brow arching. Sandor glares at her before he answers, but Sansa doesn't flinch.

“Killing my brother,” he responds gruffly before taking another swig of his drink. Sansa watches him, and his eyes never leave hers over the rim of his cup.

“You truly believe that's the only thing that could make you happy?” she asks once his drink has been lowered to the table again. Sandor seems to chew on his own words before he speaks.

“It's what I've been waiting my whole life to do,” he says, a rehearsed line. “It's what the bastard deserves, after what he did to me. After what he's done to so many people. Always told him I'd be the one to get him in the end, and I intend to keep that promise.”

“Even if it means your death?” Sansa asks bluntly. Her words fall heavily, but seemingly emotionless. She's not going to tip her cards now. Sandor shakes his head.

“My life doesn't mean any more or less than anyone else's, Little Bird,” he says. It doesn't escape her that it's the first time he's called her that since she sat down. The first time she's heard that name in years.

“Maybe not,” she concedes, taking a sip from her own goblet. “But that doesn't mean you should throw it away trying to kill someone who's going to burn regardless.”

“And what makes you so sure he's going to burn?” Sandor asks, voice rising. “I see the way you look at _Queen Danaerys_. You haven't got a lick of faith in her, but you want me to trust that she'll see my brother struck down? No. Mark my words; if Gregor dies, it's at my hand. I'll not have it any other way.”

He takes another long pull at his drink, looking away from her this time, and Sansa sighs deeply, weighing her options. When he sets the cup down, Sansa moves it out of the way, silencing his protest by putting her hands over his on the table.

“You once told me you wouldn't hurt me,” she says, leaning forward and looking him in the eyes even as she can tell he'd much rather run from what she has to say. “We've both come a long way since then,” she continues. “We've both seen and done things that should have left us dead a long time ago, but they didn't.” Sansa licks her lips and steels herself. “I don't know if I believe in Gods anymore. I don't know if the Seven, or the Lord of Light, or the Faceless God or any of them hold any sway over what we do or what happens to us. All I know is that a long time ago you asked me to leave with you, and I didn't do it because I was too afraid. And my life between then and now has been one form of hell after another.”

A look of sadness steals over Sandor's face at that, and he flips his hands in hers so that he's holding her palms hidden in his. She glances down at them and fights the smile that wants to tug at her lips. She has to make him understand, first.

“I'm asking something of you, now,” she says, gaze returning to his face. “Something even more difficult than when you asked me to leave with you. I'm asking you to stay with me. Let your brother be taken by dragon fire, or by the sword, or however it happens. Ask Danaerys or Jon or Grey Worm or anybody to ensure that he gets what's coming to him. Tell them to make sure he knows it's coming from you before they do it, if you have to. But Sandor, _please_. Do not go to King's Landing. Don't make me wonder what would have happened if you'd stayed, the way I've always had to wonder what would have happened if I'd left.”

Sandor is quiet for a long moment, and although Sansa can still see and feel the bustle of people celebrating all around them, his silence seems like it's all she can hear. When he does speak, it's not what she's expecting.

“I heard you killed your husband,” he says, and Sansa is caught so off guard by the change in subject that for a moment all she can do is blink.

“Yes, I did,” she says, once she gets her bearings.

“How did you do it?” Sandor asks. “Nobody seems to know.”

Sansa can't help the smile that finally breaks over her face.

“Hounds,” she says simply, and his startled laugh makes her smile even wider.

“You've changed, Little Bird,” he tells her, thumbs stroking across the backs of her hands almost instinctively, like he doesn't even realize what he's doing.

“I've only grown into what I was always meant to be,” she retorts, and Sandor raises an eyebrow at that, impressed.

“Aye, that you have,” he murmurs quietly.

“I want you to know the new me,” Sansa says, voice gone serious again. “I've come a long way, it's true, but there is _so much_ ahead of me. Be here to see it with me. That's all I ask.”

Sandor sighs and hangs his head briefly. Sansa waits, knowing that whatever answer he gives now will be final. This will be her only chance.

“Alright,” he says quietly, and without being able to see his face she almost isn't sure that she's heard him properly. But he looks up, then, and looks her in the eye as he repeats it again. “Alright, Little Bird. You've convinced me. Let the bloody dragon have my brother's sorry, stinking carcass. The best revenge I could have on the bastard is to live.”

“Thank you,” Sansa says, voice almost a whisper, and she can feel the tears starting to well up in her eyes. Sandor shushes her with a murmur of “now, now, no use in crying,” but reaches across the table to wipe a tear from her cheek nonetheless.

A shadow falls over them as Lord Royce appears next to the table and stands, awkwardly looking around the room with his hands behind his back. Sandor's hand falls away from her face and his other retreats from hers on the table, and Sansa pulls away to hastily wipe the rest of her tears on the sleeve of her gown while Sandor retrieves his cup yet again.

“My Lady,” Lord Royce says stiffly, only briefly glancing directly at Sansa and otherwise seeming to address the air above their heads. “I wanted to inquire as to whether you were in need of any assistance.”

The unspoken question of whether she needed rescuing of some sort from Sandor is apparent, and Sansa finds herself frowning in Lord Royce's direction.

“I thank you for your concern, Lord Royce,” she says icily. “However, I was just getting ready to retire to my chambers.” She climbs to her feet at that, finally forcing Lord Royce to look her in the eye.

“Perhaps my Lady would allow me escort you, in that case,” Lord Royce says, and Sansa raises a hand to stop him speaking.

“That won't be necessary, my Lord,” she says. “I believe Sandor is more than capable of ensuring my safety.”

She looks back at Sandor then, who stares up at her in something akin to surprise from his still-seated position on the other side of the table. Lord Royce also turns to face Sandor, a look of distaste coloring his features, but Sandor pays him no mind, as his eyes never leave Sansa's face even as he stands. Sansa smiles.

“If you will excuse us, my Lord,” she says, rounding the table without so much as a nod in Lord Royce's direction and leaving him scrambling out a “good evening, my Lady,” in response. She doesn't glance back as she makes her way through the castle to what was once her parents' chamber, but Sandor's presence is solid at her back nonetheless, and she pays no attention to any looks they might receive on the way out.

When they reach the door of her chambers, she turns, looking up at Sandor in the dim corridor. He speaks before she can, and though his words are bitter, Sansa doesn't get upset.

“Am I to wait outside all bloody night now?” he asks. “Back on guard dog duty again?”

Sansa smiles despite the harshness of his tone.

“If you'd like to, I won't stop you,” she says, smiling slightly as he huffs and rolls his eyes at that. “But, if you'd rather come inside...”

Sansa trails off, reaching into a pocket to find her key and unlock the door. She steps back inside the threshold and gestures into the room, raising an eyebrow in Sandor's direction; a question.

“If I wanted to drink I could have stayed in the Great Hall,” Sandor says, and this time Sansa nearly rolls her eyes at how obtuse he's being.

“I'm not asking you in for a drink, Sandor,” she says quietly, and his sharp inhale tells her he's finally caught on.

“Sansa...” he says, and the fact that he's neglected her nickname lets her know just how overwhelmed he is. “You'd regret it in the morning. I'm not worthy of you and you know it. I'm no Lord. I'm not even a knight.”

“But I _am_ the Lady of Winterfell,” Sansa says determinedly. “I make my own decisions.” She steps back into the hall then, pressing as close to his body as she can and bringing a hand up to cup the side of his face opposite to his scars. “I've chased after knights who didn't want me. I've been married off to one Lord I didn't choose and another who abused me. I am finished with Lords and knights. I am the Lady of Winterfell, and I am choosing you.”

Sandor closes his eyes, and his voice is nearly inaudible when he finally chokes out, “why?”

Sansa leans up, pressing the briefest, lightest of kisses to his mouth. He opens his eyes in shock and Sansa smiles up at him, more sure than ever of the course she's taking.

“Because you're more worthy than any of them,” she says sincerely.

When she turns away, Sandor follows her into the room.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at somethingsoinviting.tumblr.com


End file.
